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<title>Masturbation just ain't as fun if you can't cry when you're done by MoonTearChild</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24883447">Masturbation just ain't as fun if you can't cry when you're done</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonTearChild/pseuds/MoonTearChild'>MoonTearChild</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Apex Legends (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Masturbation, Other</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:26:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,183</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24883447</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonTearChild/pseuds/MoonTearChild</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Elliott Witt has a bad day, and takes care of himself the only way he knows how.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Masturbation just ain't as fun if you can't cry when you're done</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Mirage lets the door slam behind him. Once in the comfort of his own apartment, he huffs, beginning to struggle with his game gear. Tactical vest, harness, buckles and straps; he undoes it all bit by bit, dropping it where he stands until he's left in just his plain jumpsuit, and then that's the next to go, after he kicks off his muddy boots. Elliott tugs at the yellow padded fabric that clung to his legs with the sweat on his skin, and then he stumbles, shoulder hitting the wall and a growl leaves his mouth. "Fuck this shit!" He snarls, giving a final tug at the suit, and then he was free. Left in just his boxers, he pads to the bathroom, leaning into the shower cubicle to turn on the water, hot. Discarding his underwear, he steps under the spray and shuts the door. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The near boiling water cascades down his back, but it does nothing to lighten his mood. He lost the match due to a failed bamboozle, instead being met with the business end of a care package peacekeeper - and </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> in itself was </span>
  <em>
    <span>bullshit</span>
  </em>
  <span> because it was only round 2, who the fuck gets that lucky so early? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then there was the press conference. Because of course there was. It was always after a match, but it had rubbed him especially wrong this time around. Usually he loved the attention, but this time they were focused on discussing his most recent fuck up, much to his chagrin. And if </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> wasn't bad enough, they had decided that the topic of his love life should be brought up too, asking him about dates and his plans for when he decided to retire from the games all together. '</span>
  <em>
    <span>As if they deserve to know.</span>
  </em>
  <span>' He thinks bitterly to himself, and he recalls the way he had to stop himself responding "Sure, me and my right hand have a steady relationship going, two years strong." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's sure they would have </span>
  <em>
    <span>loved</span>
  </em>
  <span> to hear that. Elliott R. Witt, third most handsome man in the outlands, can't even get a date. Pathetic. But sure, why not cut in deep, make it really hurt? Why not ask about his missing brothers, or his mother's illness too, make a party out of his personal problems for the entertainment of the masses because he's just the kind of guy that laughs along no matter what right?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Except he wasn't laughing. He was laid on his bed, naked as the day he was born, frowning to himself. He needed a distraction, stat. 20ccs of whiskey, nurse, this man is miserable. He leans over onto his side, towel soaking through the sheets on his bed (and really he couldn't give less of a fuck, to put it crassly), and opens his bedside drawer. Yeah he kept a bottle of alcohol there, what of it? Who was gonna stop him, his nonexistent partner? He scoffs, cracking the seal and taking a hearty swig, still laid down, it spills down his jaw and the droplets catch in the hollows of his throat. God he was pathetic. He takes a few more needy gulps, feeling akin to a baby wanting its bottle, and then he caps it again, and sets it on the pillow next to him. He's leaning back over, the feeling of his good old pal Jack Daniels warming his chest and blurring his thoughts just a little, about to shut the drawer when he spies his other most favourite bottle. And then he hesitates. Sure, he could go for a distraction right about now, and booze and jerking off is about as good a distraction as it gets. He grabs the lube and doesn't bother making a show of it, just dumps enough to slick his movements into his hand then throws it to the side. He was already naked, it was practically a sign. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He grips his cock, teasing it with slow strokes and soft squeezes until he's hard enough that it can stand on its own. The beginnings of pleasure begin to bubble in his stomach, and he gasps softly as he thumbs at the underside of the head, rubbing against where he was sensitive there. He couldn't deny that it felt good, and he wraps his fist securely around the girth, bringing the foreskin up to tease the head and then back down, slow, but firm. He can't help but moan as steadily, his movements speed up, until he's planting his feet into the mattress, legs shaking as he bucks up into the warmth of his hand and his toes curl into the sheets. The harsh fabric of the towel scratches against his back, damp from water and sweat alike at this point and he can't bring himself to care, too lost in his own pleasure. His other hand moves up, running his fingers through his hair and holding back his curls from his forehead where sweat was beading, and he tugs them slightly between his fingers, hissing out between his teeth at the sting of pain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The buzz of alcohol settles deep under his skin, adding an exciting lilt to each of his movements that had him whining and gasping louder, thighs trembling as sparks raced up his spine. He was close already - blame it on the alcohol, and he wanted nothing more than to release. The sound of wet, slick movements along with his own chorus of moans fills the room as he strokes his weeping cock, twisting his wrist at the head with a cry. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He was so close</span>
  </em>
  <span>. His hand speeds up, and his breath hitches and just like that he cums, spilling over his hand and stomach with a loud, shaking moan that he would find embarrassing if he wasn't already half way to drunk, and then he falls back limp against the mattress.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After he regains his senses, he tugs the still soaked towel out from underneath him and cleans his skin from his release. His breath was short and harsh, and not just from his orgasm. He wordlessly drops the towel down the side of the bed with a sob, tears springing to the corners of his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The whole day was a shit show, and it turns out that drunk masturbation was not in fact the answer. Now he's plagued with a new brand of self deprecating thoughts, longing for a partner to hold and soothe him, and take care of him, because </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> he was getting so sick of going to bed alone… He wanted to make love to someone, feel their skin and hear them moan his name because he was so damn lonely he couldn't stand it anymore. Tears stream in rivulets down his cheeks, catching in the hair of his neatly trimmed beard and settling there as he cried, an arm over his mouth to muffle the sound.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Elliott Witt was, as always, alone. The bottle of whiskey stared judgementally from its place next to him, and he reaches for it with shaking hands, because that's all he needed, right? A distraction.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Remember to leave a like and comment if you enjoyed, it let's me know I'm doing good!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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